


i'll wrap up my bones and leave them

by Ellis



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Gen, spoilers for the finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis/pseuds/Ellis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has a job in a café in Cardiff, a sort of ask-no-questions place where she can work until her bones ache and pretend she hasn’t seen the things she’s seen, that werewolves and vampires don’t exist, that the wound on her thigh came from a dog bite or clumsiness rather than fangs in skin and a stake in her hand.</p><p>(In which Natasha doesn't die and things turn out differently.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll wrap up my bones and leave them

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Being Human, otherwise a lot of things wouldn't have happened to my faves. The title's from "Still" by Daughter, and the lyrics at the beginning are from "The Woods", also by Daughter. This is an AU for those of you who aren't certain; if you haven't seen 5x06, please don't read any further as this will spoil you and ruin your life.
> 
> I'm really grateful to Being Human and everything it's given me, from the life lessons it's taught me to all the amazing people I've met through the fandom. Here's to a fantastic five years.

_We were trying to stop the winter killing it all it could._

_And I pray a lot for you, and I look out for you._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The world doesn’t end. Not yet. Not here, not now, not on _her_ watch.

 

But her personal world, the one with dreams and ambitions and flights of fancy about houses and a Lexus and a handmade grey suit, well, _that_ vanished days ago.

 

Doing the right thing is harder than it looks.

 

She has a job in a café in Cardiff, a sort of ask-no-questions place where she can work until her bones ache and pretend she hasn’t seen the things she’s seen, that werewolves and vampires don’t exist, that the wound on her thigh came from a dog bite or clumsiness rather than fangs in skin and a stake in her hand.

 

It’s not peaceful, but nothing ever is. There’s a restlessness that plagues her, leaves her wanting to get on the first train and go somewhere else. Scotland, maybe… or Ireland, or further abroad to Europe; part of her wants to keep moving and never stop. Sometimes she can pretend to herself that she’s at peace. That _this_ is normal: the cleaning tables, serving food, please-and-thank you-sir-or-ma’am.

 

Graces don’t come naturally to her but she tries, though the words stick to the roof of her mouth and sometimes she finds herself putting on _airs_ that aren’t hers but belong to someone else entirely. Sometimes her pronunciation is dryer than usual, a hint of education there that she lacks. Sometimes she doesn’t catch herself and then sometimes she does.

 

And when she does, it hurts.

 

But this is what she wants, she tells herself. A life outside of making choices that are neither good or bad, but somewhere in between: a life outside of doing things for the Greater Good.

 

And sometimes she thinks that if he could see her now, standing on her own two feet, not making trouble for herself, not stealing or getting into fights or getting thrown out of homes and being forced to sleep rough on the street two nights in a row until he finds her and takes her to a shelter, he might even be proud of her.

 

 _Might_.

 

But mostly she prefers not to think of him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She falls in love for a while.

 

He’s blond and blue eyed and speaks French and comes in for coffee every day on his way to work. He works in the library. He’s not bookish—it’s just something to pass the time, he says.

 

“Do you like to read?” He’s got his hands cupped around the mug like it’s china, never mind the fact that it’s not, or that it’s starting to crack around the edges.

 

“Yeah,” she says. She tilts her head and smiles, but can’t think of anything she’s read for pleasure. There’ve been books read for school, and books she found in Dominic’s flat and read just because she could—anything else… “I like _To Kill a Mockingbird_ ,” she offers.

 

His eyes light up, a smile playing on his lips. “Me too.”

 

“I’m Natasha,” she says. Wants to stick out her hand. Doesn’t. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

“I know,” he says. For a moment she thinks he’s been stalking her and her self-defence lessons swim to the top of her memory: how to kick, how to block, how to hurt. His eyes look to her nametag; she instantly feels foolish. Almost blushes. Doesn’t. “I’m Daniel.”

 

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says again. Bites her lip and smiles, turns away and skips back to the till.

 

They follow this routine for two weeks before he stops coming.

 

She pretends his attention and the way he looked at her and the way her chest fluttered and heart pounded whenever he came into the café were nothing at all. She says to herself, at night, above the café: _no care, all responsibility_ , and almost, _almost_ picks up her phone. Almost hits speed dial to the first number, almost says _I’m sorry_.

 

Doesn’t—doesn’t even know _why_ she doesn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She does know why. She knows he’d rather see her strong than weak.

 

Not even _she_ wants to be weak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Turn it up,” she says to her manager. He looks at her funny; she points at the television in the corner of the room.

 

The café is quiet; it’s Friday morning, twelve o’clock, and not much is going on. The nine o’clock punters have been and gone, now only one elderly lady sits by the door with her copy of _The Sun_ and her bacon roll. He obliges, reaches for the remote and turns the television off mute as BREAKING NEWS flashes along the bottom of the screen and the news presenter shuffles more papers around before launching into, “…chaos in the capital…”

 

“Turn it up more,” she insists, eyes now glued to the screen. “I can’t hear it properly.”

 

“Aye, when did you start caring about the news, eh?” Still, he cranks the volume up again.

 

“…suspected to have originated in Barry Island…”

 

Oh, she thinks.

 

Oh.

 

The air leaves the room, and suddenly everything is spinning. She catches herself on the counter, fingers digging into the surface, and pulls herself to her feet. Her manager is looking at her funny, having moved closer like he wants to catch her. She’s fine; she shakes her head and runs a hand through her hair, lips pressing into a thin line.

 

“I know people there,” she says, like that explains everything. It’s not her problem anymore, she reasons. Hasn’t been since she packed her things and hightailed it out of there.

 

“Don’t we all?” he grunts. Shakes his head and turns to go to the stock room. “Silly fuckin’ buggers. Why’re they killin’ ’emselves? Won’t get buried in a churchyard.”

 

“Not true,” she replies automatically, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Suicides get buried in consecrated ground just like any other death now.”

 

“Whatever,” he says. “I’m going out for a smoke. Keep an eye on the place while I’m gone, Natasha.”

 

She’s not listening. “Yeah,” she says faintly. “Yeah, I…”

 

She thinks of the gun in the top drawer of his desk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not that she plans what she’s going to say to him on the way to Barry, or that she has at least ten different variations of a speech in her head, but that she needs to have _something_ to say. She’s seen enough television to know that awkward reunions are something she wants to avoid. She wants to say her piece and be done with it, maybe challenge him on what he does and why he does it, maybe get some answers, but mostly she wants to make sure that he’s fine, that he isn’t among the dead. It’s funny that their mantra was No Care, All Responsibility, and yet everything turned out to be more than that.

 

She hates him. A bit. A part of her hates him because of the teeth in her thigh, the stake she wasn’t sure she could use. A part of her understands that her doing that was necessary, that _she_ knew the risks when she said yes. She knew the plan when he came to her with it; she knew he trusted her enough to know that she would see it done. And she did that much, didn’t she? But he _knew_ she would—and that’s what she hates. Sometimes. He knew her so _well_ that he knew… she’d do anything for him, in the end.

 

She hates that. Hates her trust in him, however well placed and deserved, ended in this. Two months of no contact all to prove a point: she can do the right thing and the right thing doesn’t necessarily agree with his view of things. That… she doesn’t need him. Or want him—or his help.

 

She hates him enough to be on a train to Barry Island, duffel bag gripped tightly between her hands. She hates him enough to want to punch him in the face and scream at him and say _look at everything I did for you_ all while knowing all she ever did was one little thing and all he ever did was save her over and over and over.

 

Well, she thinks. This isn’t saving, or caring, but it’s a start.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I didn’t give you my number so you could call me and get me to come and pick you up from a police station,” he’s saying to her, frowning at her from across the interrogation room.

 

Her arms are folded across her chest. She lifts her chin and rolls her eyes. “Then why _did_ you give it to me?”

 

“For reasons other than being your personal chauffeur,” he snaps. He looks more tired than when she saw him last, but that was three months ago. Maybe he’s not sleeping well. “What did you do _this time_ , Natasha? They said you assaulted someone, but I’d much prefer to hear the story from the source.”

 

She can hear the irritation in his voice, and resents the way he says _this time_ like she does this every week. Sighs, slides down into her seat. “The situation got out of control.”

 

“I see.” His hands are resting on the back of the chair. The tape recorder sits between them, silent. She looks at his fingers and notices he’s gripping the chair so tightly that his fingertips and knuckles are turning white. “Would you like to expand on that sentence?”

 

“A man groped me outside a bar, so I punched him.” Natasha shrugs. “Twice. Once as a how’d-you-like-them-apples and once as a reminder that, er, you can’t go around groping girls just because you think they’re attractive.”

 

He presses his lips together. “He wants to press charges—”

 

“I’ll press charges against _him_! Fucking—”

 

“I will convince him that there’s no need to do such a thing, and then you and I are leaving this police station and you will promise me that you’ll never find yourself in here again.”

 

She pretends to consider this even though the truth is that it’s too good of an offer to even _pretend_ to think about. She’s fourteen and shouldn’t be getting into trouble like this, knows that there’s nothing more he hates than _this_ , but… what is it he says? Needs must?

 

“Deal.”

 

He stops frowning. “Good. I presume you still live at your current address?”

 

“Yeah.” Gradually she relaxes, lets her hands come to rest on the surface of the table. “Are you dropping me home?”

 

“One cannot expect you to _walk_ home,” he retorts lightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’ll have to think of a suitable excuse as to why you’re returning home at eleven o’clock at night.”

 

She shrugs. “Can’t you—”

 

“No.”

 

“Please?”

 

He stares at her. His frown is back with a vengeance. “Children are meant to be imaginative. I trust you’ll think of something.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe she should call him before her train pulls in. Maybe he’ll be angry at her for not calling and turning up out of the blue, but maybe he doesn’t want her to call. Maybe the two months of radio silence are meant to last forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She turns up at his flat in the middle of the night, a P.E. bag slung over her shoulder. She’s just turned fifteen and she barges into his flat as soon as he opens the door, says, “I don’t want to stay with that fucking family anymore,” and curls up on the settee, burying her face in her arm with her bag on the floor at her feet.

 

He closes the door silently and then turns to her, sprawled on his settee, and sighs.

 

“Natasha, this is _highly_ inappropriate—”

 

“Mr Rook, I really don’t _care_.” Her voice is muffled but the pain in it is clear; she lifts her head up momentarily, bleary eyed. “I hate every single one of those people. I hate—I can’t— _fuck_.”

 

Carefully: “What is it now?”

 

Natasha shakes her head mournfully, biting her lip. “My _brother_ ,” she says with scorn, “wanted to know why I was in care. So I said… my mum was killed by vampires. Because telling the truth is—is—whatever. And he starts laughing at me. ‘Ah, yeah, bet she was. Nah, I bet she was a drug dealer, shot up one too many times and killed herself with an overdose.’ And you know what my _parents_ said? ‘Oh, Natasha, you were so young when it happened, you probably don’t remember. He’s most likely right, but don’t let yourself get too upset about it. You’ve got us now.’ Fuck _off_!”

 

The silence lasts about a minute. “Don’t talk about vampires,” he says. “ _Never_ talk about vampires, or any other supernatural creatures.”

 

“What, like _don’t talk about Fight Club_?” She scoffs. “Can I stay here tonight?”

 

“No,” he says immediately. Looks at the watch on his wrist: thirteen minutes past one in the morning. “It wouldn’t be prudent—I’ll drive you home.”

 

“I told you I’m not _going_ home. I don’t even want to call it that anymore.”

 

“Fine,” he answers, keeping his face decidedly neutral. “The facts are these, Tasha: you’re fifteen and you’ve run away from your foster home. If they’re as diligent as they obviously must be in order to be fostering you, they’ll know you’re missing. They’ll have called the police. The sooner you’re returned to them, the sooner—”

 

“I want to stay here,” she says quietly. “Just for one night. I’ll go back tomorrow, I’ll—”

 

He eyes her P.E. bag. Gestures towards it with his hand. “What’s in that?”

 

“I, um… pyjamas, a toothbrush and my school uniform.”

 

He frowns. “Up you get. I’m driving you home.”

 

“Can’t I have something to eat first?”

 

“I— _excuse me_? You mean you haven’t—fine—I’m sure I have a packet of biscuits somewhere—you can have _one_ , and then we’re leaving in _five minutes_.”

 

She grins at him and for a moment he looks like he’s going to throw the packet of biscuits out of the window and tell her to jump after them. It passes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His department is empty.

 

(She shouldn’t think of it as _his_ because it’s not, it belongs to the government, but the care and attention and time he has devoted to it surpasses anything she has ever known.)

 

She shouldn’t worry about him, about the lack of his presence at the department, but she does. The files and folders are gone and everything reminds her of a shell with nothing in it, like a body without a soul. She wonders what this must be doing to him— _knows_ it can’t be doing anything good—and bites her lip. Turns away from the sight, fingers trailing over his desk, thinks about rooting through it but decides against it, and instead tries to think about where else he could be.

 

He isn’t at his flat. Usually he caves in and answers the door after she’s been knocking for two minutes, but five minutes later and there’s no reply. For some reason she imagines him dead on the floor, a gun at his side, blood seeping from the hole in his head, but she can’t smell anything that smells remotely like death, so maybe that’s not it. Maybe he’s just… out for a walk, or at a café, or at a park reading his favourite book.

 

Plan C is the hotel, except she goes into the lobby and throws up twice and then throws up on her way out. She manages not to throw up as she walks down streets and steps over bodies.

 

He might be at Tom’s, but… that’s a long shot. She can’t think of any logical reason why he’d be there, yet maybe—maybe he’s consulting them on what to do about the suicides. She makes this her next stop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Outside the house, she unzips her duffel bag and pulls out the cross she took from his flat. She leaves the bag where it is, underneath the baskets of shrubbery.

 

The door has been left slightly open. Through the crack, she can hear _chaos_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She is not brave. She has never _claimed_ to be brave.

 

But she walks into the proverbial fires of Hell anyway, cross in hand, into the house and its chaos, and it goes something like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Well if it isn’t the _bitch_ from the hotel,” Dominic says, and for a moment she’s taken aback, almost expecting venom to spit from his mouth because of the sheer hatred in his voice. “Oh, he _likes_ you.” His head snaps back and he stares at the ceiling, breathing in. “He’s _fond_ of you. How _touching_.”

 

Hal is on the floor; she can’t think why. Instinctively she shies from him, takes a step back from all of it because Dominic has never spoken to her like this and, really, truly, this isn’t how reunions are meant to go. He’s meant to be mildly unimpressed at her return, at her concern for him passed off as ‘I had some unfinished business’ or something akin to that, but ultimately they’ll sit down and talk, or maybe they won’t, but this—this isn’t how it’s meant to happen.

 

“Natasha!” Tom’s shouting her name while in the process of getting to his feet—she hasn’t that he’s on the floor too, but either they’re all having a day off or this is… worse than she thought it might be. Worse than being called a bitch by someone she trust(ed). Funny, that. “Get out of the house—it ain’t safe—it’s—”

 

“I can _see that_ ,” she snaps, angry now, angry that something isn’t right with Dominic. Angry that… God, angry at _everything_ —at her mother for dying, for leaving her with vampires, at herself for trying to do the right thing, for being here, at Dominic for being like _this_. “For fuck’s sake,” she whispers, her hands becoming fists. “For _fuck’s_ sake.”

 

Dominic’s eyes are on her and he’s smiling like a wolf and his eyes are red and his gaze is predatory and he’s saying, fuck, he’s saying, “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” and it’s his voice but it’s not his words, there’s no grace or neutrality to them and where’s the underlying hint of politeness, where’s the underlying indifference to most things in his life?

 

She pushes him in the chest. He stumbles momentarily, as if surprised she’d do something like that, then he’s back to smiling and tilting his head and laughing like this is funny. “Does the human want to _play_?”

 

“Fuck _you_ ,” she says. Slaps him, sends his head rocketing back, but then his fingers are on her wrists and digging into her flesh and she’s reminded of Hal’s fangs puncturing her thigh and she’s thinking, well, this was a bad idea, so much for doing the right thing. “Fucking get _off_ of me—”

 

“I like the ones with fire. They’re fun to burn out.” His eyes are red and horrible and red and his face is inches from hers and for some reason she has tears in her eyes because he should be at his department, not here, not like this. His eyes should be blue, not red.

 

“He’s the fucking _Devil_ ,” Tom roars, and she thinks—yeah, that explains it. Then: oh, the Devil exists.

 

Then: try burning me out, you piece of shit. Stamps on his foot so hard that he roars in pain and releases her. Grabs his face between her hands, pressing her fingers against his temples so that he can’t ignore the fact she’s there—Tom is shouting _what the hell do you think you’re doing_ , Hal is laughing at the absurdity of it all, _humans, so brave when it’s so fucking pointless_ —and she stares at him, stares into the endless abyss that is his face and his eyes and realises she sees nothing of _him_ there.

 

This’ll be fun.

 

This’ll hurt.

 

“You think you’re _scary_ ,” she hisses, “you think you’re _scaring me_? I’ve seen Dom—I’ve seen Mr Rook stab a man in the eye with a pen because he wouldn’t stop talking. _That’s_ scary. And me? Well—yeah, _I’m_ terrifying. Ask a man I punched twice for looking at me. Ask my foster parents, I’ve had so many of them that I’ve lost count. Ask the girls at school, or the teacher I tripped down the stairs. Ask Mr Rook. I have a temper! I have _more_ than a temper. He arranged for me to have anger management therapy, did you know that? I went twice and decided that it was a waste of my time. I could rip you apart with my teeth if I wanted to, I reckon. You think Mr Rook is scary? You think possessing him, doing whatever you’re _doing_ to him, will make you bigger and more powerful?”

 

“You’re a girl,” he says. “A speck of dust. As fleeting and insignificant as a fly on a windshield.”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Tom moving.

 

“And you’re a lecherous old man in the body of someone better than you,” she spits. “Devil or not, you’re what—you’re God’s mistake, aren’t you? If He can’t fucking put up with you, what makes you think we will? That _I_ will? And you know what? If you _really_ want to do some damage, come into the body of a woman. Because that’s what I am—a woman, not a girl. Come into my body and see me make men cry and—and—” she can’t remember the line of that poem, she can’t remember how it goes, “—and fucking _eat men for breakfast_. You think Mr Rook will give you power: you don’t know shit. Power? You want _power_? _Women_ are power.”

 

“ _Insignificant_ ,” he spits. His hands are on her wrists again but she digs her fingers into his temples so that he’s wincing. “Women are—”

 

“Original sin,” she counters. She can’t remember what the Bible says. What does it matter?

 

He smiles. Seems amused. “Perhaps.”

 

“So bring that to the table. Bring original sin back.” His fingertips are hot and searing and her veins are starting to feel like they’re on fire. “And have a younger body that can do more than _his_ —”

 

“In return for?” His eyes are still red. She can’t believe she’s trying to find remnants of him amidst all the red.

 

“Nothing.” But she’s thinking _let him go, bring him back to me, he’s my only friend, I love him_.

 

His hands release her wrists. With a flick of his fingers, he pushes her across the room and sends her colliding with the bar, sliding down, stunned. She can’t breathe. The cross flies from the back pocket of her jeans, landing several feet away from her. Her fingers try to reach for it as he strides towards her, humming to himself.

 

“Nobody ever learns that God never answers.” His smile is both lion and wolf.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Possession is like tar entering your lungs and clogging up your whole body.

 

She feels herself collapse, feels the Devil seeking out her every crevice and every hiding place. He flicks through all her memories like he’s browsing a stack of CDs.

 

 _No_ , she says. _Don’t_ —

 

 _We made a deal, princess_ , he reminds her. _He fought too, you know. The moment the ghost said your name… but I’m not about living in the past, am I? Gosh, I’d never get anything_ done _. One hundred years I’ve waited for this and here I am wittering on about how much humans_ care _. What is it he calls you? Tasha? Yes, I’ll call you that too. Goodnight, Tasha. Sweet dreams._

Her world is going black; he laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It ends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Get her _out_ of here,” Hal says. The Devil is swirling around them, smashing everything in his path, and Hal is clutching his throat and struggling to breathe. “You’re the only humans in the room—he’ll possess her again, or you—”

 

Dominic’s gaze is ice. “I understand.” He’s on his feet in seconds, staggering over to her unconscious body, bundles it up into his arms. Turns to look fleetingly at the vampire and the werewolf. “Thank you.”

 

Above, the black mass is humming furiously, shattering picture frames.

 

“ _Go_ ,” Tom screams, struggling to say the single word. “We’ll keep ’im occupied.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The end happens quickly, though he’s not there to see it.

 

He can feel it in the air as he bundles Natasha into the car, slams the passenger door shut and climbs into the driver’s seat. The air is thick with something intangible but present all the same; it makes his stomach roil and it’s all he can do not to be sick as he slams his foot down on the accelerator and speeds down the street.

 

A small mercy is that his mind is blank and Natasha is still breathing, head lolling against the car door, hair obscuring her face—he glances at her once and thinks better of it when the Lexus careens over a dead body, making the car lurch. He curses softly and tries another route, vows to pay more attention to the road, can’t help but feel that this is his fault, that all these deaths—

 

Better a few deaths than ten thousand.

 

And yet…

 

For some reason he finds himself thinking of his father. They can’t stay here—where else can they go?

 

London, he supposes. It hasn’t hit there yet. It won’t hit there—that much he’s sure of. Cardiff has suffered some fatalities, but not enough for bodies to be lining the streets. Cardiff is close; they can regroup there, they can find themselves, they can… talk.

 

It surprises him. They can talk—can they? He glances at her again. The fact she’s here—he’ll get an explanation out of her regarding her mysterious appearance. Maybe he’ll even ask her about her lack of contact, lecture her on how just because she’s decided to leave Barry Island does _not_ mean she gets to cease all contact without prior arrangements.

 

You didn’t even attempt to contact her, he thinks. He sighs. He takes back roads and starts the drive to Cardiff.

 

You didn’t attempt to contact her at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She wakes up in a hotel room with a cup of tea and a note on the bedside cabinet.

 

 _There is a possibility that tea is cold. The kettle’s in the corner should you feel inclined to make yourself another cup. I am_ not _your personal butler._

_Please be kind enough to contact me when you wake up._

 

She smiles despite herself, puts the note down and picks up the mug of tea. Surprisingly it’s still warm; he can’t have been gone more than ten minutes. She doesn’t even like tea that much but she takes an obligatory sip in case he feels inclined to check the mug for evidence of consumption upon his return, and then reaches for the remote control, considerately left on top of the other pillow on the bed.

 

The news informs her that the suicides in Barry were the result of a gas leak. She snorts. Apparently the gas has now vanished into the atmosphere and poses no further threat to anyone in the area, but police are unwilling to comment on precisely where the gas leak came from, and what kind of gas it was.

 

The key turns in the lock and then Dominic enters the room, a bag of shopping in one hand. “Ah. You’re awake.”

 

“Yes,” she says carefully, suddenly uncertain. There’s a moment of silence after he closes the door and sets the bag down, where they look at each other and say nothing at all. “Gas leak, eh? Who came up with that one?”

 

“Not I, for once,” he replies. The tension on his face eases slightly; he loosens his tie. This is the first time she’s ever seen him do that. “ _That_ was the invention of the Home Secretary. He fancies himself _quite_ the supernatural expert now.” He smiles ruefully. “I take it you’re feeling better?”

 

“I guess.” She sits up, still cradling the tea. “Thanks for the tea.”

 

He says nothing for a moment, then starts to empty the bag. She sees he’s bought deodorant, painkillers, and Earl Grey teabags.

 

“What happened to me?” Her voice is quiet and doesn’t carry. He looks at her from across the room. Frowns.

 

“We may need something stronger than tea to discuss that,” he murmurs lightly. “Which reminds me—I would like to apologise for… my behaviour—”

 

She waves her hand. Sloshes tea over herself, winces at the brief look of horror on his face. “I know it wasn’t… you. Not _you_ you. I mean—your eyes were red.”

 

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, puts the kettle on, and takes a seat in the armchair at the far side of the room. “I’d also like to thank you for what you did.”

 

Biting her lip, she doesn’t say anything for a while. Then—softly: “You’re welcome. I… wasn’t sure if you were…”

 

“Conscious? Unfortunately so. I was unaware possessions worked in that manner, but I suppose that’s something to inform the department.” He purses his lips. “There is, however, one question that remains unanswered.”

 

She sips at her tea in case he takes offence. Says, lightly, “oh?” even though her stomach is twisting.

 

“Why did you come back?”

 

She can’t look at him so she looks at the bed, at the tea she’s spilled down her work clothes. Her stomach hurts. “I don’t—I—look, I know… I know ‘no care, all responsibility’ is your _thing_ , Dominic, but for me— _look_. I saw the news, and I thought—I thought you might’ve been one of the, um. One of the casualties.”

 

“Perhaps we should rethink that,” he says carefully, shifting in his seat. “I’m very grateful to you, Tasha.”

 

“Don’t be,” she says. She still can’t look at him. “You saved my life countless times, didn’t you? This is just me returning the favour.” She pauses. “Is the department safe?”

 

He nods once. “Yes. Once the suicides started occurring, Alistair had me assemble a team and attempt to tackle the problem.”

 

The kettle finishes boiling. Neither of them moves. “I bet that went well,” she offers. “The talk. And the, ah, tackling of the problem.”

 

“I did manage to shoot Captain Hatch in the head,” he says lightly.

 

She looks up, staring at him with a mixture of shock and amusement on her face. “With _what_?”

 

“A high powered sniper rifle.” If anything, he seems terribly smug.

 

“You know how to fire a _sniper rifle_?”

 

“I know how to do lots of things.” Yes, that’s definitely smugness. _Definitely_ smugness, with a bit of self-righteous congratulation in there too. She’s not surprised, not really.

 

“Fuck off,” she says, not meaning it. “I wish I’d seen that.”

 

“It was quite a spectacle.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They eat dinner together.

 

Beneath the veneer of calm, she senses a degree of awkwardness and uncertainty. Possession by the Devil changes people; it’s as though he’s let a part of himself go. She can’t put her finger on it, can’t even explain why or how she senses the uncertainty. Perhaps it’s just that they know each other so well, and that she can pick up on the slightest change. Perhaps it’s just that he seems oddly focused on his salmon filet and salad.

 

“How did I get out?” she asks suddenly. He looks up, frowns. He frowns too much, she thinks. “I mean—how did we get out of there? I was unconscious, you were—”

 

“Oh,” he says. Cuts another slice of salmon and pops it into his mouth. Chews for a long time, like he’s trying to avoid answering. “I carried you.”

 

Oh, she thinks. “Thank you,” she says, and means it. “That’s, what, the fifteenth time you’ve saved my life?”

 

“Twenty second,” he comments wryly. “Not that I keep count.”


End file.
